Jane Doe January: My Twenty-Year Search for Truth and by Emily Winslow

By Emily Winslow

In the vein of Alice Sebold’s Lucky, comes a compelling, real-life crime secret and gripping memoir of the chilly case prosecution of a serial rapist, instructed via one in all his victims.

On the morning of September 12, 2013, a fugitive job strength arrested Arthur Fryar at his apartment in Brooklyn. His DNA, entered within the FBI’s felony database after a drug conviction, have been matched to facts from a rape in Pennsylvania years prior. Over the subsequent yr, Fryar and his attorney fought his extradition and prosecution for the rape—and one other like it—which happened in 1992. The victims—one from January of that 12 months, the opposite from November—were saved nameless within the media. this is often the tale of Jane Doe January.

Emily Winslow was once a tender drama scholar at Carnegie Mellon University’s elite conservatory in Pittsburgh while a guy brutally attacked and raped her in January 1992. whereas the police's look for her rapist proved futile, Emily reclaimed her lifestyles. Over the process the subsequent 20 years, she fell in love, married, had little ones, and started writing secret novels set in her new homeland of Cambridge, England. Then, in fall 2013, she acquired surprising news—the police had discovered her rapist.

This is her intimate memoir—the tale of a woman’s annoying previous catching up along with her, in a rustic faraway from domestic, surrounded by means of those who don't know what she’s persisted. stuck among prior and current, and among very assorted cultures, the inquisitive and stressed crime novelist searches for readability. starting her personal research, she delves into Fryar’s kin and prior, reconnects with the detectives of her case, and works with prosecutors within the months resulting in trial.

As she recounts her long term quest for closure, Winslow deals a heartbreakingly sincere examine a vicious crime—and bargains necessary insights into the brain and center of a victim.

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Example text

I’d genuinely forgotten about that until now, when I found it in the poems I wrote then: wanting to stab my mother’s cousin with a steak knife when he innocently put his arm around my shoulders for a photo, and later wanting to strangle a pigeon. Even inanimate objects weren’t spared. When my tights caught on the head of a screw in a window seat, I “plunged my finger in and ground the screw down . . ” Sometimes I felt suicidal, but I wasn’t actually going to do it. I had a rule for that, too: you can kill yourself tomorrow if you still need to then.

I came close to getting my kit in the lab queue, but it never quite got there. The policy of the lab had once been to analyze DNA only when there was a suspect to compare it to; otherwise there was nothing to test against, as there was not yet a reference database of criminal DNA as there is now. Now DNA analysis is routinely performed for current cases, but for the old cases, they don’t have the time or workforce to tackle them all. Individual old cases are carefully chosen. Honan didn’t think that the East End rapist fit my attack profile.

I find his Facebook page, but don’t dare friend him to see what he’s posted, even though I’m desperate for information. Jealousy is second. The other victim is going to get it all: a solemn courtroom, a sympathetic jury, an avenging judge. For more than twenty years, that’s what I’ve wanted: to get to say what happened, to be who he’s punished for. Now she gets the detectives who need her to prove their case; she gets the attorneys who need her to perform on the stand. She matters. I’m still the beggar I’ve been for two decades, calling the police every couple of years to ask them to look again; always talking to new detectives because none of them stay; always having to explain who I am, explain the case, because no one remembers, except for me.

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